


in memoriam

by ConstellationConfusion



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012)
Genre: Straights?? in My fic????, all four of the boys are dead, ghost/spirits au, ill keep adding tags as i go, its more likely than you think, master splinter? idk him who's he, set post season 5, tw lotsa death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:39:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29740941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstellationConfusion/pseuds/ConstellationConfusion
Summary: They had always known that any day could be their last. They just hadn't though the last would be so soon.Buried in a cemetery, far from the streets they called home, four brothers find an unexpected friend who seems to need them as much as they need him.The fact that they're ghosts is just a minor setback.
Relationships: April O'Neil (TMNT)/Original Male Character, Donatello/Casey Jones/April O'Neil (TMNT)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Life Needs Things to Live

**Author's Note:**

> y'all gotta put up with my oc ok
> 
> anyways this is my first tmnt fic and the main character isn't even one of the boys lmfao   
> sorry haters

“Hey, Mariana. You been alright while I was gone?”

Tomas brushed a hand against the headstone he was leaning against, tracing the carved words with his fingertips. Daffodil sun rays warmed the stones scattered about the clearing, trickling from between the tree branches of the surrounding forest, a portion of serenity away from the neurotic hustle and bustle of the city. It could almost be peaceful, if not for the fact that it was a cemetery, filled to the brim with reminders of death and loss. 

Sitting amongst the dandelions, Tomas stared into the dimming sky with half-lidded eyes, dangerously close to dozing off. Crickets chirped from somewhere in the bushes, singing a tiny requiem for Tomas and his companions. 

“I didn’t bring my stuff with me today, but I’ll be back next week with them,” Tomas murmured. “I know you’re all aching for a good clean.”

Mariana didn’t respond, but Tomas hadn’t expected her to. After all, one would have to be insane to expect a reply from a dead person.

Sighing, Tomas shifted so that he was sitting on his knees, facing Mariana’s grave. Grime had started to collect upon its surface and settle into the grooves of the cursive engravings, the elegant white stone now brown and grey. Life had kept him busy and away from the abandoned cemetery for several weeks, and in turn he had neglected his usual chore of scrubbing the handful of headstones until they gleamed, sparkling with dewdrops under the morning light. 

It was the least he could do for the forgotten souls, those put to rest in a lost cemetery tucked away deep in the forest and then left behind as life continued on. 

He felt sorry for them, for the people he would never truly get to know. Tomas knew that it was just the way of life, but part of him felt an odd sense of guilt that he couldn’t help these people be remembered for who they were when they were alive, rather than clinging onto what they left behind in death. All of them were here, in this specific cemetery, because the people they loved hadn’t returned enough of that love to ensure that they would never be lonely as they slept beneath the soil, or they hadn’t had people who loved them at all; Tomas wasn’t sure which one was sadder.

He envied them, in a way that he didn’t care to explain. 

Tomas stood, trailing his fingers along the tops of the headstones he walked past as he weaved between the graves, whispering greetings to each one as he went. The overgrown grass tugged at his shoes, politely asking for him to join the collection of bodies hidden away, the blades swaying vehemently each time he declined, refusing a dozen times over. 

Pausing at the end of the cemetery opposite from where he had been speaking to Mariana, Tomas tilted his head when he noticed four new gravestones embedded in the ground, ones that hadn’t been there the last time he had visited. They were incredibly simple, not much more than grey squarish slabs of stone, each emblazoned with a name, birth date, and death date. The dirt over the grave was still fresh, grass poking up through the sod, yet the headstones themselves were already succumbing to the harsh environment, coated in a thin layer of filth. 

“Hello there. I don’t believe we’ve met before.” Tomas crouched before them, eyes sweeping over the names. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Raphael, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello. I’m Tomas.”

No reply. As always. 

He didn’t know why he kept waiting for one. 

-:-

_“I like him._ ”

“ _I don’t. He’s probably never coming back._ ”

“ _He’s the only other person who’s come here, he can’t be all that bad._ ”

“ _Does it matter?_ ”

“ _…_ ”

“ _No need to be so cynical._ ”

“ _I’m just being realistic._ ”

“ _…I’d like it if he came back. It’s nice to have someone talk to us again._ ”


	2. We All Live and Die Fortissimo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer please don't clean graves unless you know what you're doing and you have permission   
> also yes i am aware that you shouldn't clean them too often so that the stone doesn't wear down but for the sake of the story I Don't Care
> 
> anyways enjoy

“ _See? I told you he’d come back!_ ”

“ _Figures that some stranger would visit more often than our own friends._ ”

“ _Don’t be like that._ ”

“ _He isn’t wrong._ ”

“ _Shush, here he comes._ ”

-:-

A plastic canister full of water bumped against Tomas’ thigh as he lugged it into the cemetery. It was always hell trying to drag all of the equipment through the forest, but stubborn pride prevented him from making more than one trip. And so Tomas found himself cursing the third root that had caught his foot, doing his best not to drop the various brushes, scrapers, and hose nozzles he was carrying. He’d even manage to scrounge up his old weedwacker, a small old thing than ran on batteries and was practically falling apart.

It had been a few days since his last visit, and though Tomas knew that there was nothing to do but wait in the afterlife, he still wished that he could spend more time with his friends.

…It was sad, wasn’t it? How he lived such a lonely life that the only people who would put up with him were the dead. And even then, he had no way of knowing if they appreciated his presence, or simply tolerated it.

Tomas dropped the canister with a grunt as soon as he made it to the edge of the cemetery, legs nearly giving out after hefting the five-litre container for half a mile. The tools clattered to the ground and he swiped errant locks of hair out of his face, out of breath and sweating slightly.

“Oh, the things I do for love,” he sighed, placing his hands on his hips and surveying the cemetery. Tomas mentally picked out which headstones to clean, as well as noting which areas needed mowing. The four newest additions to the congregation weren’t dirty, per se, but nonetheless he intended to provide a welcome cleaning, an initiation of sorts. A little something to say, _as long as I’m here to keep your grave pretty, you won’t be alone_.

Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves and rolling up the sleeves of his baggy brown jumper, Tomas clapped twice, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet air.

“Alright,” he said, determination glinting in his eyes, “let’s do this.”

There was something cathartic about running a brush over smooth stone and watching the murky water drip away, feeling like he had accomplished an arduous task that amounted to something more than self indulgence.

Tomas lay on his back amidst the stones, face and jeans alike streaked with dirt and speckled with soapy residue. It wasn’t quite midday, and Tomas gave in to the urge to soak up the sun for a few minutes longer, baring his skin to the warmth and watching the orange lights flicker beneath his eyelids. The wind was whistling and rocking the tree branches, errant leaves fluttering into the cemetery like feathers from a migrating bird’s wing. If he focused, the wind almost sounded like voices, breathy and whispering important things, things that must be said before they were swept away along with the breeze. But, there were no voices except for his own, and it was still only the wind.

Exhaling without any inkling of haste, Tomas opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness of the sky, and rolled onto his knees. Looking around, he ticked off each clean headstone with satisfaction, grasping a handful of freshly-cut grass before letting it go again. He had cut the grass just short enough that it wouldn’t obstruct one’s view of the graves — not that anyone but him ever saw them, and he practically had all of the names and dates memorized anyways.

He tried not to think about how truly redundant his efforts were.

Swiping blades of grass off his chin, Tomas huffed fondly at the array of headstones, quietly waiting for him to say something. (That was all they could ever do, really. Wait. What they were waiting for exactly, Tomas couldn’t tell you.) Scanning over the names, he chose to speak to an old friend, a woman by the name of Betty Chou.

“My dearest Betty, you look ravishing today.” Tomas strolled over to the newly-polished granite headstone, putting on a dazzling smile. He pictured an elderly Chinese woman who could have passed for his grandmother, leaning on a wooden cane and narrowing her eyes good-naturedly at him. She would chide him for being cheeky, then invite him over for tea and homemade xiao long baos. Together they would talk about Betty’s recently born grandson, or she would teach him how to speak Mandarin, or sit in little wicker chairs playing a game of mahjong.

Then Tomas would blink, and all of a sudden he was back in the cemetery, and Betty was just another body under a rock stuck in the ground.

An unnamed feeling crawled up his spine like a spider skittering up its web, too small and too clever to catch and dispose of. Tomas clenched his jaw and moved past Betty’s grave. He ended up toeing the border of the cemetery, the graves of Donatello, Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Raphael at his feet. Odd, he hadn’t intended on speaking to the newcomers so soon. It seemed that his feet had its own agenda, drawing him towards the four subconsciously as if too eager to wait for his brain to catch up.

“You clean up nice, fellas,” Tomas mused, eyeing the stones of slightly different colours appreciatively. Whoever had selected them had good taste, having all four made of fieldstone, each tinged a certain hue; Leonardo and Donatello’s were both a cool grey, though Leonardo’s was a touch paler, Raphael’s was a dull maroon, and Michelangelo’s was a rusty ochre.

Their birth dates weren’t very far part, each a different date in 1997 — brothers then, Tomas hypothesized. A closer look confirmed that Leonardo was the oldest, followed by Raphael, then Donatello, and finally Michelangelo.

The death dates were exactly the same. They were barely twenty-two, only a little bit younger than Tomas was. Youngest amongst the crowd, it seemed. A morbid part of Tomas wondered how they managed to die at such a young age, and why their parents chose to bury them here, of all places.

“I think we’ll get along just fine.” Tomas sat down a few feet away from the brothers, cross-legged with his chin resting in one palm. “Have you met the others yet? Some of them are a tad off-putting, but they’re nice enough. Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. We’re a sort of mix and match family here, if you want you can be a part of it too.”

-:-

“ _This guy makes me sick._ ”

“ _For once, I’m inclined to agree with you._ ”

“ _Oh come on, he’s super sweet! He cleaned our graves and actually talked to us, it’s literally impossible to hate him._ ”

“ _I’m not going to comment on your use of the word “literally,” but I will refute that I enjoy his presence in any way._ ”

“ _I mean… why not just give him a chance?_ ”

“ _What, you planning on kissing the living dude’s ass or something? Who cares about some rando who spends his time hanging around dead people?_ ”

“ _…I just think that if someone’s willing to spend this much time with us, we might as well be nice to him._ ”

“ _Sure. Whatever._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patience

**Author's Note:**

> good luck


End file.
